


Bury Me At Makeout Creek

by oldcatloudcat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, F/M, Headcanon, Intoxication, Making Out, Romance, hot hot hot, i love these two, in the tower, so hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:33:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4539981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldcatloudcat/pseuds/oldcatloudcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is messy. And sometimes terrifying. People screw up, get drunk, say things that they shouldn't.<br/>Sometimes you have no idea what to do.<br/>Even commanders and inquisitors are sometimes at a loss.</p><p>Set within DA:I: spoilers.<br/>Some dialogue lifted from the game--all credit for that goes to the lovely writers at Bioware.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bury Me At Makeout Creek

* * *

              **He was** always the first to realize when she had entered the room. Leliana constantly mocked him for it.

             “Inquisitor, you’re here. Good. We were awaiting your arrival,” Cullen had said one day as Trevelyan entered the room.

             “Some of us more eagerly than others,” Leliana said, smiling at the Inquisitor, then glancing at Cullen out of the corner of her eye. He had coughed, briefly embarrassed.

             “Ah. Yes, well,” Cullen said, and quickly returned to more comfortable matter. “We’ve received reports from our scouts in the Western Expanse, and received more volunteers from the Hinterlands…” Perhaps if Cullen refused to indulge Leliana, Inquisitor Trevelyan wouldn’t realize the truth: that Leliana was right. He was acutely aware of her presence. And perhaps by refusing to acknowledge the truth of Leliana’s statement, Cullen could also continue to ignore whatever it was that he felt.

             It was absurd, of course, that he should develop any kind of feelings for the woman to whom he had sworn his sword: leader of the Inquisition, the Herald of Andraste. They were at war, facing countless terrors, scrambling to discover any new information about the mark on Trevelyan’s palm or the seemingly immortal enemy they faced, and yet he still sometimes blushed when her hand brushed his.

             It had started quietly. When he had met her, he noticed her strange, otherworldly beauty: she wasn’t conventionally attractive, not precisely, but something about her drew the eye and fascinated the viewer. Perhaps it was because she was so alive. She was vibrant. At first, he had been painfully aware of her magic. He was wary of her. But the few times they spoke, she had been witty, funny, even, intelligent, and aware. She challenged him. She had made him laugh, remarkably. She was kind. He realized she fascinated him, this woman with mysterious powers, the very key to their survival. It had seemed she found him significantly less fascinating, until she had approached him while he was running drills with new recruits in Haven. By then, they had built up something of a report, a comfortable, professional back-and-forth. He knew little about her, she about him, which was presumably why she asked him about his life as a Templar.

            “A life of service and sacrifice. A beautiful sentiment,” she had said, thoughtful. “Commander, are templars also expected to give up…physical temptations?” She chose her words carefully. She met his gaze, eyes alight. Cullen was shocked.

           “Physical? Why…?” He cleared his throat. “Why would you...?” He spoke slowly, softly. She continued to look at him, not breaking eye contact, a smirk rising on her face. He recomposed. “It’s…not expected,” he proceeded cautiously. “Templars can marry—although there are rules about it and the order must grant permission… Some may choose to give up… _more_ , to prove their devotion, but it’s, ah, not required,” he finished, brow creased, a bit confused. He assumed she was finished.

            “Have you?” she asked. She did not look away. He was taken aback, startled, again, by the question.

          “Me?” his voice raised in surprise. He spoke slowly. “I…ummm…no. I’ve taken no such vows.” A simple answer; end of story. He broke eye contact with her then, feeling a little overwhelmed. “Maker’s breath. Can we speak of something else?” She laughed good-naturedly.

            “Of course, Commander. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable; I am sure we have much to discover about one another,” she said. A courier appeared to her right, beckoning to her. “Oh, excuse me.” She turned from him. “If you would have me, Commander Rutherford, I would very much like to learn more about your previous life. Namely, how you acquired that extraordinary cloak.”

            Cullen had watched her back as she left, addled by the exchange. _She had been unabashedly flirting with him_. Frequently, such things went over his head, Cullen too preoccupied to notice someone’s interest. When it did register, however, usually he either countered with an easy but meaningless flirtation of his own, or a professional, polite dismissal; he had done the former with her, exchanging quips in previous conversations, but now? He had been crippled, floundering and awkward. Exposed. Overwhelmed. But not necessarily uncomfortable.

            Cullen very much wanted to speak to her again.

            Months passed and he found himself unconsciously glancing at her as she walked by, noting with whom she spoke and about what, marking her patterns and behavior. He looked forward to their conversations, their time spent together. Those moments were fleeting, less frequent than he would’ve liked. Regardless, they were becoming friends, he thought, rather miraculously. Cullen had come to deeply respect Trevelyan as well. She was an excellent fighter and a compassionate leader (of sorts). Whatever other thoughts he had, he immediately discounted and ignored. Their relationship, his feelings for her, would remain simple.

            That became difficult after the attack on Haven. During the assault, he conducted himself professionally, as always, betraying little, evacuating the city and mounting the defense. He was collected; he had a job to do. When she and a handful of others remained behind to hold the rear, he had grown concerned. When it became apparent that Corypheus himself was leading the attack, he had been anxious. When he realized that everyone alive had escaped except her, when he watched the trebuchet launch and begin the avalanche, when he knew it was her behind this last-ditch effort, he was afraid.

            He had kept the fear back by searching for her in the blizzard that ensued after the battle, wandering as far away from camp as he dared and calling for her. Feeling like he was doing something useful, busying himself, helped keep his panicked thoughts away. Others joined him, but he continued to push ahead of the crowd, further into the snow. When he watched a shape appear out of the white haze and stumble towards him, his heart leapt into his throat. Cullen hoped. Then he saw the green glow of her left hand. Cullen had shouted her name and rushed towards her. She had started to collapse into the snow, knees buckling, before he caught her in his arms, cradling her and carrying her back to camp as fast as he dared. After that, ignoring the relief he felt at her recovery, his panic at her absence, became impossible.

            He cared for her.

            He found it a struggle to completely conceal his feelings. They leaked out of him in small confessions: gestures; comments; little moments of care. When he felt it was appropriate, he would gently flirt with her, as though he were ten years younger. Cullen wanted to talk to her more, to be by her side. Soon he found himself wanting to touch her. Tiny things: an urge to brush her hand, sweep her hair out of her face, touch her waist.

            A part of him was mortified that he felt this way; it was completely inappropriate. She was his leader, now the leader of the entire Inquisition. She deserved his respect and his service exclusively, not his affection. _Andraste’s mercy_ , he was a templar and she a mage, two groups currently at war. What he felt for her was a fantasy and he would not allow it to impede his work or hers. That was a gift he could give her: his professionalism, his loyalty, his counsel. She did not need his love, and he, by all accounts, did not deserve her. She was, against all odds, his friend, and he hers: they were more than just comrades-in-arms, they were companions. She asked for his company, wanted to spend time together. He had revealed to her his fight to end his reliance on lyrium; she had believed in him, trusted him, and supported all his efforts. She herself had shared moments of weakness with him, confiding in him her fear, uncertainty, her grief.

            That should be more than enough, Cullen thought. He was grateful and shouldn’t desire, hope, for more. She did not, could not, care for him the way he did for her.

* * *

 

            The sky was dark over Skyhold, deep into the night, the hour past midnight. Cullen stood in his office, leaning over his desk and examining scouting reports that had just arrived. It was too late, he knew, for him to be working: a number of people would have had his skin if they knew he was still awake and pouring over his work. But he felt restless that evening. He had attempted to sleep earlier and had been awakened by a particularly bad dream. Shaken by a nightmare of red lyrium, he nominated not to join the crowd that was surely gathered at Herald’s Rest, but instead devoted himself to drafting plans for tomorrow’s council meeting. He would probably tire soon; perhaps he’d fall asleep in his chair.

            There was a knock at the door. Cullen looked up, slightly surprised.

            “Come in,” Cullen said.

            The door opened and Trevelyan stepped into the room.

            “Andraste’s tits, Commander, what are you still doing up at this hour?” she asked, grinning at him. Cullen thought she seemed…

            “I could ask the same of you,” he replied.

            “I was enjoying a few rounds of Wicked Grace with Varric and the Chargers. Unfortunately, I believe I lost one too many hands, so now I’m comfortably and decidedly drunk,” she said, closing the door behind her and crossing, standing opposite him across the desk. She was less certain on her feet than usual: ah, yes. Definitely drunk.

            “I’m not certain whether I should pity or envy you,” Cullen said, resting his hands on the table. Trevelyan laughed gently. Cullen continued. “So who robbed everyone blind this evening, Varric or the Iron Bull?”        

            “Bull, the bastard: Varric drank too much and wasn’t as wily as usual.”

            “Any fantastic stories to share?”

            “Oh, a number I’m sure you’ll find delightful,” she replied. “When are you available? Presently? Is now a good time?”

            “Did you come all the way up here just to tell me some risqué anecdotes you collected while you lost miserably this evening?"

            “No. I saw the light in your window,” she answered. “I’ll admit, I was a little worried. You’re all right?”

            “Yes, I’m all right,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep so I decided to get some work done.” Cullen gestured to the reports. Trevelyan walked around the table and joined him, standing to his right and reading over his shoulder.

            “Anything we should know?” she asked, reaching a hand to shuffle a few documents, skimming.

            “Several things,” he said, “but I’ll disclose everything in tomorrow’s council meeting. It’s for the best; you may be too drunk to understand what I’m saying.”

            Trevelyan chuckled once and didn’t look up from the papers. Cullen turned his head slightly, glancing at her. He watched her profile, the way her eyes roved the table.

            “How dare you?” she said quietly. “Insubordination, I say. I’ll have your head for this.”

            Cullen laughed: she was easy for him to talk to. She turned to look at him, her eyes bright, meeting his. Cullen found that he had unconsciously leaned closer to her, as he frequently did in her presence. He straightened his back and drew away from her, increasing the distance between them.

            “I did say I’d give my life for the cause,” he said. Cullen betrayed nothing. He turned away from her, back to the table and his papers, and busied himself by shuffling them into piles. “Although I never expected the end would look quite like this. I had hoped for something more glamourous.”

            Trevelyan laughed. Then, a brief pause. Cullen continued to work.

            “Commander?” she asked, breaking the silence.

            “Yes?”

            “Might I ask you something?”

            Cullen stopped and turned to face her again. “Inquisitor?”

            Trevelyan met his gaze momentarily, before looking away. Her brows knit; she looked pensive. Oddly, Cullen thought, a little sheepish. She brought a hand up to her forehead, pushing her hair back distractedly.

            “I was curious…” she said. “Well, I was wondering…”

            Cullen’s heart fluttered erratically, butterflies erupting in his stomach and throat. He turned away from her, facing the table and papers again, suddenly compelled to break contact with her.

            “You can ask me anything, Inquisitor. I am here for you,” he said. Friendly. Gentle. Somewhat professional. Then, Cullen felt her hand on his shoulder and, surprised, swung around to meet her. Suddenly, he felt her lips on his.

             It was warm, fleeting, simple, practically a brush of her lips against his. It was so brief he barely had time to register what was happening before she was pulling away, her eyes meeting his, her hand still on his shoulder. The Trevelyan’s weight shifted back to the heels of her feet; she had been standing on her tiptoes.

            “Oh! Oh…oh, Maker’s breath. I’m—um—I’m so sorry,” she said. She was quiet, almost fragile. “I…I shouldn’t have…” she trailed off, looking to the side. Cullen didn’t dare move: he didn’t think he could. She hadn’t removed her hand from his shoulder. He realized he was holding his breath: he didn’t want to hazard an exhale, cautious this was all some kind of illusion and a breath might blow it away. His eyes searched her face, his thoughts murky. Trevelyan quickly looked up at him again, decided, her face set.

            “Please. Please, I want you,” she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper. Cullen’s throat constricted suddenly, his heart leaping. He didn’t look away. “Please,” she said again. “Please, I…I don’t—”

             That was all he needed.

             Without thinking, Cullen leaned down and kissed her, capturing her mouth in his, bringing his hands up to cup the sides of her face. He exhaled audibly as he kissed her, finally releasing the breath he had been holding, melting into her. Cullen swept an arm around her waist, pulling her tightly into him. He felt her weight shift. She came back to her tiptoes as she reached up, wrapping her arms around his neck.

            It was all too much. Her touch reverberated inside him, her plea, “I want you,” shaking him to the core. Almost as if she were begging. The world around him was hazy, grey, except for her, and the places where they touched: she felt warm and electric against him. It was as if a dam inside him had been broken. Every moment he had wanted to touch her, every ounce of affection he felt for her bubbled up inside him into a fluttering mess.

           Cullen kept kissing her. What had started as something slow, deliberate, and decidedly passionate was evolving into something almost beyond his control. His kisses came faster in succession, deeper, more feverish, his pulse quickening and both of their breath’s echoing in his ears. He wanted more of her. He met her lips again, tilting her chin to feel more of her, different sides, different areas of her mouth he hadn’t yet touched, and she… She was kissing him back. Fervently. She pulled him into her, her mouth warm and inviting on his, melting beneath his touch. Their lips parted, mouths opened, breaths intermingled.

            Suddenly, her knees buckled. He responded quickly, tightening his grip around her waist, supporting her, taking her weight. He foggily registered the wall a few feet behind her and wordlessly began backing her up to meet it; his focus was entirely on her. She wrapped her arms tighter around his neck, stealing kisses and breathing heavily against his shoulder as she allowed herself to be walked backwards. As soon as her back was secure against the wall, they were together again, lips melting into one another as he pressed her more firmly into the mortar. Cullen placed one hand against the wall, trapping her beneath him, bracing himself. He ran his other through her hair, tilting her head back and kissing her more deeply. She drew his bottom lip between hers, lathing it gently with her tongue. It floored him.

           Cullen’s fingers trailed along her neck, tracing the muscles there, and he felt her shudder beneath him. He transferred his lips to her neck, the place where he touched her, and was rewarded with a quivering sigh. She wove one hand into his hair, running the other down his back, caressing his shoulder blade as he leaned over her.

            Cullen couldn’t think: he felt drunk, dizzy. She smelled incredible, she smelled like _her_ , and her skin was impossibly soft, salty and sweet all at once as she moved underneath him, responding to him. He ran his tongue along her neck, kissing her, lavishing her, sucking at her skin, drawing it between his lips. Somewhere in the back of his head, a tiny part of him hoped he’d leave a mark. When he bit her gently, she gasped again, louder this time.

 _Maker’s breath_ , he wanted _more_ of her.

           She pulled his face back to hers, capturing his lips in another fierce kiss. He groaned deeply, involuntarily, almost inaudibly, and pressed against her more firmly. His hands were at her throat, then, undoing the clasps of her leather doublet. He kept his mouth on hers as he opened her jacket and her lips parting, inviting him in. Her doublet was undone to her navel when he moved on to her linen shirt, pulling strings and ties until the front began to separate beneath his fingers, revealing new skin. Then his lips were on her neck, then on every new piece of her exposed to him. He kissed her desperately, trailing his mouth down from her neck to the junction of her shoulder, to her clavicle. He used his teeth there, biting her again, sucking gently and she writhed beneath him: ecstasy. His mouth traveled lower, and miraculously he discovered the very tops of her breasts, two brief swells. There was an instant of uncertainty before he ran his tongue along them, kissing her feverishly, worshiping her.

            Trevelyan sigh again above him, a breathy moan, her head leaning back against the wall in order to expose more of herself to him. Cullen’s head buzzed: she was like a drug.

            “Cullen,” she whispered, voice hitching.

            Something inside Cullen shook. She had called him by name only once before. It was… Abruptly, he was awake. The fog lifted, and he realized with stinging clarity what, exactly, he was doing. He stopped, felt his hand on her waist, one on her lower back, felt her clinging to him, quivering, heard her panting above him. His breathing was labored, too, his face still an inch away from her chest. Distress mounted within Cullen. He pulled back, drew up to his full height, his hands still on her. Trevelyan looked at him, her eyes dark, heavy, lidded, her chest heaving, her mouth slightly open.

            “Cullen?” she asked dreamily.

            He withdrew his hands from her.

            “My lady,” Cullen panted. “My lady Inquisitor, I’m sorry. I…I…this was a mistake— _my_ mistake.”

            Her eyes was clearing. Trevelyan looked confused now, eyes flicking back and forth between his. She brought her hands to his chest, gently placing them there.

            “Cullen?” she said softly. “Cullen, I don’t understand, what…?”

            “I…I’m sorry, I need to…” Cullen looked to the door. “I have to go.”

            He didn’t dare place his hands over hers and draw them away from his chest, he simply stepped back and out of her reach. She looked at him, searching his face, fully awake and concerned.

            “Commander?” she asked. Cullen looked at her: her shirt was open; breasts heaving; hair a mess around her face. Her lips were swollen, pink, her face and neck flushed. There was a mark on her chest. He tore his eyes away from her.

            “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone.” Cullen said. “I must go.” He didn’t look at her again, simply turned to the door to their left and walked. He gripped the handle, hesitating a moment, before he pulled it open and stepped out into the night. Trevelyan stood, shocked. Now alone, she brought her hand up to her chest and felt the open shirt there. Trevelyan grabbed the edges of it, pulling it tightly closed in her fist. Her eyes didn’t leave the door.

            On the battlements, Cullen walked, then broke out into a jog, searching for somewhere private, somewhere she couldn’t find him and he wouldn’t think about her. Somewhere he could breathe.

_What had he done?_

            He had taken advantage of her: she had come to him drunk, intoxicated, not in her right mind, and he had benefitted from that. She had been lonely, certainly, and out of her mind and looking for someone to touch.

            At that thought, he was angry. He thought about her touching someone else: what if it hadn’t been him that she had come to, what if she hadn’t seen his light in the window? Perhaps she would have come across Bull as he left the pub, or Blackwall in the yard; perhaps she would’ve asked them to touch her. Then he was angry at her: he was nothing to her, just a body to come to when she needed someone, and he….he adored her. He wanted her so completely, so impossibly it sometimes scared him. _Andraste’s mercy_ : he thought of the mortifying erection quelling between his legs. She couldn’t possibly know what she did to him, what that moment did to him. What it _meant_ to him. How he…

His anger faded: no, she couldn’t have known. She can’t know what he felt for her. This wasn’t her fault.

            He was hurt, then. That was the heart of it: it shamed him, hurt him to think he had taken advantage of her vulnerability and trust. It hurt to think of how little this must mean to her, and how much it meant to him. He had lost control. He had allowed everything he felt for her to hinder his judgement, and now…?

            Cullen found a quiet spot on the battlement, bits of rubble and stone scattered on the ground, overlooking the mountains to the south. What if she didn’t trust him after this? What if she was disgusted by him, even afraid? What if she felt nothing at all?

           He decided: he couldn’t let this happen again. He couldn’t allow himself to get involved with her any more than he already was, to entangle her in all of the complicated threads of his life: his recovery, his addiction, his nightmares, his history, Kirkwall, Circle Tower, and Samson. He would hurt her, burden her. She deserved better than this: she deserved someone she loved, someone who was stronger than him, someone who wouldn’t kiss her only when she was drunk. Not him.

            Cullen looked out at the deep shadows of the mountains in the night, dark against the stars. He resolved: he would leave her alone, as he had said. He would support her, even die for her, but he would keep his distance. He could be comrade, maybe friend, but that was all. He would not trick himself into thinking that this meant she cared for him, would not make the mistake of assuming too much. He would not touch her again.

            He took a deep breath, clearing his lungs, and pushed his hair back from his face.

            Then he took his feelings and put them aside, pushing them down, hiding them.

            He would spare her this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you love these two as much as I do. Their romance and the conflict between templars and mages interests me -- it seems so fraught! Plus, I've been pining after Cullen for three games now. Such satisfaction.
> 
> title references Mitski's album "Bury Me At Makeout Creek" -- the song "Francis Forever" is a favorite and an inspiration.
> 
> Any critique on this piece would be very welcome -- first time writing a scene that is remotely intimate, and it's exceedingly difficult: did I get the ratio of dialogue to lip-lock right?; was everything clear enough?; was it sexy enough?; WAS IT SEXY ENOUGH? Also concerned about the verbs and their clarity, but that's less interesting.
> 
> Considering expanding the piece and resolving it: that seems only fair. But I don't want the resolution to follow the canonical romantic arc too closely; I don't want to almost copy a scene, verbatim, from the game. Ugh.
> 
> Also tempted to touch on a bit of the Iron Bull's romance (he's my other favorite). So inspired by the rich worlds Bioware produces!


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